These Eyes We See With
by Symmetrical
Summary: The world seemed to beautiful, bright, looming over the young, sheltered boy who had never experienced such an unchained, uncaring world. His knees buckled as blue eyes closed slowly. Kristoph-centric fic, pre-AJ. Possibly AJ spoilers.
1. These Hands We Hold

I'm trying another chapter fic, and I'm not sure why. Just lately, I've been completely drawn to him. I was replaying case 1 and just thought "... God he's pretty." So now I've even been drawing the guy on my calculator D: So yeah, I'll try it and see what happens.

**Disclaimer :; Symmetrical claims ownership of nothing in this fanfiction, merely the general story.**

* * *

The world seemed so bright and beautiful, the subtle baby blues and hues of indigo blending together into a wonderfully blank canvas that a painter would dream of ever owning. The pure white clouds scuttled across the sky, elegant swans and eagles intertwining as the clouds moved, becoming ox and cats and giraffe. The constant horizon was an uneven mess of browns, greens and greys, as city blurred with countryside, the town standing out bathed in light as glass windows reflected the sun. The grass surrounded his feet, licking at the leather shoes with abandon, not caring if their saliva was less than welcomed by the owner. He lifted his head slowly, covered eyes filtering harmful rays from damaging such a youthful face. Crystalline blue eyes squinted, observing the picturesque landscape. Here, he decided, would be a good spot to curl up and sleep.

His mother. That was it. Something to do with his mother. And his father, the two of them. Something like that. And sirens. Wailing. Screeching. Loud, obnoxious, disturbing the quiet street. Yeah, something like that.

He was being nudged, a hand placed on his shoulder to lightly jostle the sleeping boy. Drowsy eyes opened slowly, still attempting to shut out the invading light. He heard a slight jingling, possibly from a uniform constantly displaced from the small movements. As Kristoph's eyes took in the scene, an angel in a blue suit leaning over him as light illuminated young features to catch his attention, he once again heard those cursed wails, never ceasing to destroy all peace of the world around them. He barely heard the crackle of some sort of transceiver, a muffled "We found him" audible over the myriad of other sounds that clashed, building into a crescendo as Kristoph put his hands to his ears, suddenly feeling scared of all around him.

The policeman hauled Kristoph to his feet, dust and dirt dropping from the pale blue shirt and beige shorts onto the ground below to lose their individuality as soon as grain met earth. Muddied knees felt weak, manicured fingers clinging to blue-clothed arm.

His mother. Why was her face so fresh in his mind, yet seeming so distant? It was as if a thin veil had been placed, obscuring finer details of what should be such easy to access memories. Yet as the stifled words were spoken to that transceiver, thoughts clicked into place as shocked flooded every pore of his being. "Yeah, we found his mum last night, head wound. Apparently the kid had fled after seeing, I don't blame him considering his age. Yeah, we've got the dad in custody. The kid? I don't know, find some relatives for now? She's in hospital, scans being carried out to try and save her. No, she's not dead yet. It seems another domestic, heat of the moment. No no, bring him in, he can stay here for questioning for a bit." Such sounds, thrown out with such carelessness that a dull weight settled over him. He allowed his lithe body to be dragged to the police car, what would usually be an amazing adventure for someone his age.

The sirens were off, a subtle hum accompanying the car as it moved steadily onwards, tears trickling down the pale cheeks dappled with a light tan, leaving clear tracks as drops fell onto blemished knees and now tattered clothing, barely missing the slightly clenched fists that were one of the last times that Kristoph Gavin ever allowed his emotion to shine through his ever thickening mask.


	2. These Flowers We Offer

The revolving doors twisted and spiralled in the most perplexing of ways, allowing people to navigate their treacherous passag

The revolving doors twisted and spiralled in the most perplexing of ways, allowing people to navigate their treacherous passages. Kristoph's eyes shone, amazed by such a simple contraption. Soon he was being pulled inside, the transparent glass allowing him to watch expressions of upset or happiness on others' faces. His hand was released as soon as they entered the pure white room, filled with plastic orange chairs and fake receptionists. Kristoph decided then that he did not like hospitals.

The man who had harmed his mother had been released; Kristoph had heard the policeman telling him. He refused to call him father; he was no relation of his in the young boy's eyes. No, he was merely a man who knew Kristoph's name, his favourite flavour of ice cream, that he secretly liked wearing glasses. A man who'd been released for attempted murder due to a lack of evidence. A man who was now free to live his life however he wanted.

The small waiting room TV showed a man conjuring rabbits, doves, chickens out of his hat, elephants surrounding him in a magnificent display of what many believed to be magic. Kristoph didn't believe in magic, nor the unknown. There was always some sort of trick; a special lever concealed which opened a trap door. True miracles obviously did not exist.

Kristoph's escort had walked forwards, addressing the almost orange woman behind the polished desk, her overly pink lips reflected in such a shiny surface. Mouths moved as locations were exchanged, and once again Kristoph was being led away, eyes widening in awe of the large building. Suppressing all emotions deemed unnecessary was a difficult task when the wooden white door loomed over the duo, beckoning them inwards. As the door was opened, Kristoph's mere second of hesitation did not register in the escort's mind, as such would be expected of a young boy.

Nothing could prepare Kristoph for seeing his mother lay on the bed, her eyes half lidded from what could be brain damage – the scans had not fully revealed the extent of the injuries. Her blonde hair surrounded her pale face, freed from its usual tight curls. Such light green eyes seemed so blank, like seeing but not seeing simultaneously, the youthful curiosity gone. Her head tilted, observing the slightly unorthodox couple as if they were strangers. Kristoph's eyes became downcast, not wishing to meet with hers. Would she even know it was her son?

"Hi, mum, it's me… are you feeling better?"

The words seemed to have no effect on the woman, ringing around the room like a fly that does not see that the window is open. Dejected shoulders slumped, the rosy tulips almost falling from the loosening hand. No more words were spoken in such a forced meeting. There was no need for words. There was no need for anything.


End file.
